Goodbye, John
by WhisperThroughTheTrees
Summary: Post Reichenbach; One Shot Sherlock and John resume living together at 221b Baker Street, but things just aren't the same- John's limp has come back and he hasn't quite gotten over the pain of loosing Sherlock just yet.


Are you still angry at me? -SH

No. - JW

Will you come home, then? -SH

I don't know yet. - JW

I thought you weren't mad? -SH

I'm not. I'm just, thinking. - JW

Oh. When will you be home? -SH

Does it matter? - JW

Sorry. Look, I'm not mad, forget that. - JW

I'm leaving on a case, so I won't be home either. -SH

For how long? - JW

Not sure. Lestrade wouldn't give details. -SH

Right. Okay, have fun I guess. - JW

See you tonight. -SH

Yeah. - JW

I think we need to talk. -SH

Its fine, Sherlock. Just forget it. - JW

We need to talk. -SH

When? I don't know when you'll be back. - JW

Around 8. -SH

Right. I'll head back to the flat then. - JW

See you then. -SH

As eight ticked by, John made his way towards 221 Baker Street, choosing to walk rather than take a cab. Truth be told, he had been walking around for the majority of the day and his legs were weary beneath him, begging for rest. His old limp occasionally reared its ugly head with each step and he cursed it, steeling himself as he headed to where Sherlock would be waiting for him.

A few minutes later, Sherlock climbed out of a cab, looking at his watch. 8:28. He was late. He paid the cabbie before taking the long steps up to his flat. He reached the flat door, unlocked it, and opened it, saying, "Sorry- Anderson was being an idiot. As always." John glanced up from his seat, not even really registering Sherlock's late timing. He gave a gentle smile at the detective's comment, before shaking his head.

"It's fine."John said as Sherlock walked over to his chair, sitting to face John.

"So..." Sherlock said slowly.

"So," John replied gently, fingers curling into his armrests as Sherlock sat opposite him. After a few more moments of silence, he shifted uncomfortably. "You said you wanted to talk."

"Yes," Sherlock said, staring at the man across from him. "It seems that ever since I got back, you've been...different." he said. "I know I was gone for three years, but you've been irritable and overall angry. Why is that?" Sherlock said, studying John. John tensed at the mention of those three years; the years that he had been determined to pretend had never existed. He opened his mouth to reply, already readying the torrent of angry abuse that he had replayed over and over in his mind since Sherlock had turned up alive on his doorstep, before he stopped himself. It would solve nothing. He was passed the point of being angry and just now, undeniably crushed and broken; somehow feeling more abandoned than when he had originally thought Sherlock dead. So, shaking his head softly, John glanced away.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," Sherlock said in an unusually soft voice. "We're partners, John. I know you're angry about the three years we spent apart, but trust me, if anything, they were worse for me. I had to go three years, knowing you thought me dead, knowing you were suffering and unable to do a thing about it. I know I've explained this a million times, but it was for your own safety." John nodded softly, still glancing towards the fireplace.

"I know. I understand, Sherlock, I do." He broke off, eyes shimmering in the light of the room as his left hand clenched with slight tremors by his side. "It doesn't matter now. You're back. That's what's important."

"But there's something wrong. Something that's off...and I can't quite figure it out." Sherlock said, trying to suppress the tones of frustration in his voice. "I think we've gotten to the point where you can tell me if something's bothering you."

"I'm not so sure that we have, Sherlock," John replied softly, seeming drawn and spent in the familiar armchair. "I just want to forget about it all, okay? I'm sincerely glad that you're alive. God, I even prayed for it, but I don't want to talk about those years," He continued to stare at the fireplace. "And I'm sorry that you suffered as well, it must have been hard, and if you're wanting to talk about it then I'm here to listen." Deep blue eyes swiveled to him sorrowfully. "But I can't reciprocate." Sherlock's heart sank.

"Is it ever going to be the same?" he asked slowly, fixing his eyes on the ground as not to reveal his emotions to John. "Maybe," John replied quietly, glancing away again.

"Maybe not. A lot's happened, Sherlock. I'd like to think that everything'll be okay again, that it'll go back to how it was before, but..." he broke off, trailing into silence.

"But it will never happen." Sherlock finished sadly. He composed himself enough to look up at John. "I'm sorry. For everything. All the fights. Everything else. I know this might seem strange and insincere considering I don't normally apologize...but I mean it this time." John met the detective's eye sadly.

"I know you do. It isn't your fault, Sherlock. It took me a while to realize it, but all this," he laughed bitterly, eyes swimming slightly, "all this was Moriarty's doing. You were just doing your best against him. I understand that now." Sherlock's chest tightened. He hadn't felt this much sadness and emotion since before he'd returned to Baker Street. He got up from his seat and moved slowly in the direction of his bedroom.

"John?" he said quietly, with his back to his flatmate. Without turning, swallowing in the hopes to alleviate the painful knot in his stomach, John replied softly.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I missed you." he whispered, unable to keep the emotion from his voice. With that, he disappeared into his room.

John's chest tightened painfully, his expression crumpling as he heard Sherlock leave. The tremor in his hand became increasingly more violent and a quiet sob rose in his throat. Raising his good hand to his face, he shielded it as best as he could from the outside world, cursing himself as warm tears began to flow past his defenses. It had been some time since he had allowed himself to cry; he was a soldier, he had learned to steel himself as best as he could from grief or pain. Today, clearly, he wasn't a soldier. He was just a man.

Down the hall, Sherlock closed the door behind him and collapsed on his bead, sobs wracking his tall, thin body. He had never felt attached to a person before John, and seeing him in obvious pain, hurt the detective. He lay there, silently sobbing, wishing he'd let John in on his plan 3 years ago. If he knew Sherlock was alive, he wouldn't have had to suffer those long, lonely nights.

Lowering his hand from his face, John wondered if this was how it was going to be from now on: the pair of them separated by walls and unable to bear being in the same room as one another. His hand shook harshly against his knee and he glared at it, wishing it would stop. Sherlock had been the cure for it before, why wouldn't his return act in the same way? The answer, of course, was obvious. Everything was different now. Sighing tiredly, John studying the pale scars along the undersides of his wrist, wondering if he should just leave again. It wasn't fair to stay here and cause Sherlock such pain just because he couldn't get past what had happened. They shouldn't both be unable to move on with their lives.

After a while, Sherlock collected himself. He walked over to the mirror hanging on his wall and jumped at his reflection. Red, swollen eyes; disheveled hair; tear tracks down his cheek- this wasn't him. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He wiped his eyes and took a few calming breaths. After a few minutes, his eyes looked relatively normal- one would only be able to tell he was crying by getting close in his face. He took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in his throat, and silently opened his door. He crept back into the living room, undetected by John. "I did come back," he said after a moment.

John flinched slightly at Sherlock's voice, instantly wiping away his tears and tugging his sleeves down on his shirt. He twisted slightly, glancing back at the detective with a gentle frown. "What?"

"I came back." he stated plainly. "To watch over you. To, er, make sure you were safe. You never saw me, of course, but I was there." he shifted uncomfortably. "I even saved your life a few times."

John's eyes narrowed slightly, eyes shimmering as he studied Sherlock across the room. "I don't..." he paused, clenching his shaking hand tightly before continuing."You saved my life? When?"

"That night outside the pub. Well, morning, I suppose. When you were attacked, I was the one to call for help and drag you back out of the alleyway. Otherwise, no one would have found you." he looked up. "That was the only time I actually came close, but I figured you were too intoxicated to remember me. I was right, too, judging the look on your face."

John's brow furrowed intently as he fought to remember the night in question. He vaguely remembered the attack; little more than a dull thump between his ribs before he had collapsed to the ground. His head had been spinning with the amount of drink he'd had, but he remembered being moved along the ground until he suddenly woke up in hospital to a concerned-looking Lestrade by his bedside.

"I don't remember," John replied, voice sorrowful at his failings in recalling such an important act Sherlock had performed for him. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't intend for you to recall it." he said, shrugging his shoulders. "There were other times. Times I'm sure you /do/ remember." Sherlock moved further into the room, leaning against the back of his chair. "I stole all the bullets from the gun in your nightstand while you were at work," he held up a finger, counting the times. "One night I went so far as to locate your hidden stash of razor blades and confiscate them, as well as hiding the all the knives in the kitchen." he held up two fingers for a moment before lowering them. "There were others, but the important part is I never left. Not really." The doctor's mind swiftly raced back over the times he had remembered suddenly being devoid of any forms of weaponry in his apartment. At the time, he had assumed it had been Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or - God forbid - even Mycroft. It was a strange comfort to know that Sherlock had always been there, but somewhat disturbing that he had been acting as an actual ghost in his life; unseen, but still present. Sighing, considering the times Sherlock's interferences had prevented him from taking drastic measures, and he quietly let slip the words, "Maybe you shouldn't have bothered."

Those words came as a blow to the detective. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. "John Watson, you're of no use to anybody if you're dead." he took a deep breath. "Especially to me." he added. 'Oh, no,' he thought to himself, fixing his eyes on the fireplace. 'No more crying, that's not of any use to anybody.' "John, I wish I could take back those years. I do. It took all I had not to walk into this flat and reassure you that everything was for the better."

John lowered his head, blinking down at his lap. He cursed himself for allowing the words to slip - great way to make Sherlock feel better - and felt his body tense quietly. Softly, he spoke:

"I know. Sherlock, it wasn't your fault. What happened…happened. We can't change that now."

"I want to go back to how it was, John. I want to go out and solve cases with your assistance. I want my partner back," he bit his lip and looked John in the eyes. "I want my friend back." he finished quietly.

Despite his attempts to still them, tears welled in John's eyes and he quickly glanced away.

"I can't help you anymore, Sherlock. I'm useless to you now, you know that." A tear slipped down his cheek and he continued to avoid looking at the detective's face, hand still shaking against his leg. "I am your friend, Sherlock, I always will be, but I can't be your partner anymore."

Sherlock kept his eyes, unmoving, on John. "But John..." he trailed off. Inside his head, a voice was yelling at him, ordering him to reason with the man. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. For what was perhaps the hundredth time that week, Sherlock contemplated leaving again. He brushed the thought away, sure it would only cause John more pain. They were miserable without each other, but when they were together again, things were almost equally unbearable.

"I want to help you, Sherlock," John continued weakly, tears still dripping from his long eyelashes. "I want to run around London with you again, jumping over buildings and getting bloody ASBOs." A fond smile stole across his face at the memory before it faded again just as swiftly. "But just look at me," he gestured to himself before turning his gaze to Sherlock's, eyes sincere. "I mean really look."

Sherlock's eyes raked across the doctor. His limp was back, that was made obvious by the cane, and his hands were shaking a dreadful amount. He looked frail and vulnerable as opposed to the John Sherlock once knew.

"Your limp went away once, as did the shaking," he stated. "Who's to say it won't again?"

John laughed bitterly, wiping away tears with the back of his hand.

"That's what I thought," he replied tiredly, trying to still the trembling in his limbs but to no avail. "But I think I've probably overdone it, this time." He sent Sherlock an apologetic look, "I think you might have to enlist in a better partner, Sherlock."

Sherlock sunk into the chair next to him, head in his hands. He had never shown this amount of emotion to John before. "That's it, then?" he asked, his words slightly muffled. "That's it?" he discretely swiped at the tears forming in his eyes.

John watched him wearily, sight blurring with the tears behind his lids. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't..." he swallowed slightly. "I literally can't help you now, no matter how much I want to. It's not fair to you."

"I won't leave you, John." Sherlock said, sitting up rather suddenly. "I-I can't." his voice quivered.

Watching the normally stoic detective begin to fall to pieces, John pushed himself onto his feet with a painful wince. Weakly, he made the few wavering steps over to Sherlock's chair before dropping to his knees beside it. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around the thin shoulders, his brow falling to the side of Sherlock's head and nestling there as he held on for dear life. Sherlock was shocked for a moment at this show of affection, but wrapped his arms around John equally as tight. He tried desperately to suppress a sob, but failed miserably. Still, he held on to the man, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. "John," he whispered, trying in a blurred attempt to bring back the John Watson he had grown attached to. "John."

Holding onto Sherlock tightly, ignoring his aching leg, John drew a hand softly through the detective's long hair.

"Ssh," he hushed, forcing away his own anguish as he took on the role of comforter quite easily. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm here. It's okay, I promise."

Sherlock sobbed shamelessly into his now ex-partner's shoulder. A million memories rushed through his head all at once- the time John had shot and killed for him. The time he they had sat in Buckingham Palace together, Sherlock only covered in a sheet, laughing at the absurdity of the event. The time he had stood on the ledge of St. Bart's and dialed John's number. The time he uttered those two words. The two words that changed both of their lives. "Goodbye, John." He couldn't bear to have to say them again. He didn't know if he could.

Holding the taller man as the dams broke - perhaps years of stoicism finally crumbling before his eyes - John continued to cradle him tightly. He found himself, unknowingly, remembering all the time they spent together. From their first meeting; a display of Sherlock's astounding skill and intelligence, to their everyday lives of squabbling and amicable interactions, and finally to the day everything changed. Squeezing his eyes closed, John fell silent, holding Sherlock close and contemplating whether he should ever let him go.

Sherlock's tears eventually stopped. He didn't know how much time he had spent in John's arms- he didn't really care. He liked the warmth and comfort he felt. He hadn't felt this safe or cared for since he was a child, wrapped in his mother's arms. He silently prayed he could always feel this way, or if anything, occasionally. "John?" he said quietly, not moving a muscle. John remained still, arms strong around Sherlock and with no intention of moving. Merely tilting his head slightly from where it rested against Sherlock's, he swallowed slowly, before replying, "Yes Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry you had to see me like this," he said quietly. "I had no intention of making you feel sorry for me. It's just...it's been hard on me, seeing you like this." Sherlock mentally kicked himself for being so blunt, before stopping himself. Since when did he care about being blunt? He sighed and shrugged the thought off.

"Don't apologise," John replied softly, still stroking Sherlock's hair comfortingly. "I've seen worse." He shifted, wincing at the pull of phantom pain in his leg as he continued to hold the taller man. "You've been through a lot, Sherlock, probably more than me." He paused, forcing back the tears and allowing his doctor persona to hold firm. "Everyone needs to let it out sometime."

"But not me..." he whispered. He held the doctor tight, once again, and buried his head in his shoulder. They were silent for a few moments, before Sherlock spoke once more. "How should we proceed?" he asked in a strained voice.

John hushed him again, the weight against his shoulder a silent comfort. "I could stay with you, Sherlock. I just can't help you how I used to." He paused, jaw tightening slightly. "I'd be a burden to you. But," he began, sensing that the detective was about to protest, "It would be my pleasure to stay with you, no matter what."

Sherlock did not reply, instead, he sat stock still, holding his breath- for in his mind, if he didn't move, maybe the time would slow down, even go backwards if he concentrated hard enough. He held his breath for as long as he possibly could before letting it out in a deep sigh. "Oh," he finally said.

John paused, listening to the heavy sigh quietly before loosening his grip a fraction.

"I understand if you don't want me to," he replied gently, moving back before releasing his hold entirely. With a pained expression, he made to push himself upright, his leg rebelling against him as he did so.

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "I mean...no, you don't have to do that." He stood in unison with John, face to face. "I think I'm going to bed." he said. "Goodnight, John."

John's eyes met Sherlock's briefly before he glanced away, nodding. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before drawing John in for one final, brief hug. He pulled away slowly, studying John's face before disappearing, once again, into his bedroom.

The hug lingered on his skin for a time after Sherlock's departure; the warmth a surprising comfort to him. With a weak smile, eyes still annoyingly wet, John chose to sink into his armchair; his body too exhausted and achy to attempt to brave the stairs to his room. Closing his eyes, he attempted to fade into sleep, praying fervently that nightmares would not be awaiting him when he finally did so. In his room, Sherlock carefully lowered himself onto his bed, a fresh wave of sobs wracking his body. He didn't know what had come over him- he hadn't cried since he was a small child. However, the thought of loosing John Watson for a second time- his only true friend- this time for good...he couldn't bear the thought. Eventually the warm tears cascading down his face stopped and he slept a dreamless night, waking only in the middle of the night to unbutton his shirt and slide it off his slim body before falling back into the deep rhythm of sleep.


End file.
